


Out of the Ashes

by teapig



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Carnivale - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, amctheterrorgiftexchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 13:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15219908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapig/pseuds/teapig
Summary: In the aftermath of Carnivale, Francis does what he can to patch up a guilt-ridden James. (For the AMC The Terror gift exchange on tumblr, and more specifically, @magnificentmoose!)





	Out of the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnificentmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificentmoose/gifts).



> For the AMC The Terror gift exchange on tumblr - for @magnificentmoose, who asked for "Crozier/Fitzjames, aftermath of Carnivale, angst (?)". Getting me meant of course it was going to be angst (it's what I do best!)

The first day of light passed in moments. No sooner had the sun dwarfed the light of the flames than it was retreating back below the horizon, staining the ice a milky shade of red, an eerie mimic of the faded blood spills that lay beneath the snow. A breathless silence had fallen over the work parties as ice and wreckage were scoured and cleared, the dead brought out under James’ quiet command. Every sound seemed to echo now. Everything had its sound, from the snow, that had melted under the heat, swallowed the screams of the dying, and refrozen into ash-stained ice, cracking beneath their feet, to the rasping breathing of smoke-ridden lungs working twice as hard to cope in the cold, - there was no such thing as 'quietly' now.

And there, at the centre of the wreckage, knelt James, with his greatcoat flung hastily over his once-glorious costume. Francis had circled him for a while, doing what he could to help – when he spoke, his voice was husky, hoarse with smoke. “James… James, go back. Others can do this.” He said, started, softly. James didn’t even glance up from the charred body beneath his gentle hands. A second look told him that this had once been Dr Stanley, and his mind flashed back to the look of sheer horror that had crossed James’ face when he first uncovered the still-burning body, before they had any idea of the destruction that was about to unfold. That horror had been replaced now, taken over with a mournful tenderness as he tucked the body in under the canvas. “Come on… they need you on _Erebus_.” He added, ducking to help him up, knowing first hand the stiffness brought on by cold.  
The grief in James’ response stayed with him for the rest of the day; the rawness of it grating on his mind. “These men need names yet. The tally later.” It was as if the orator had been ripped out of him, falling with these men as they fell victim to the flames. Francis knelt down next to him, holding the canvas steady as James covered his face for the last time. “He had a daughter. Who’s going to tell her that she’s an orphan now? And that her dad didn’t even give his life saving others like he always has done, but in taking them?” He asked, more of the corpse than of Francis, who stayed silent, watching his face as the devastation wracked across it.  
“Are you certain that it’s you who should do this?” He asked, eyes searching James’ face as he gathered himself to move on to the next man – the body charred and twisted in its dying agony.  
“Yes. I was part of the cause, Francis. I have to- have to do something for them... Even if it’s only in death.” Francis reached out to him then; a hand squeezing gently at his shoulder as he straightened up. “I understand, James, don’t you worry. When you’re ready, maybe report back to _Erebus_ , touch base with your lieutenants there, then make your way over to me on _Terror_. See if we can’t patch you up a bit too, hm?” James responded with a quick nod, glancing up at Francis as he moved away. He swallowed, hard. Had Francis noticed the blood caking at his hairline too? He’d not had time to wipe it away since before Carnivale – and if he’d noticed, who else might have as well?

A few furtive words with Mr Bridgens had been all Francis needed for things to fall into place – that naval efficiency working perfectly once it was back to the routines they recognised. And so it was that evening, that Francis spotted the lone figure trudging out towards Terror, still in his tattered toga. Turning to Jopson as he pushed back into the main cabin, he nodded quietly. “I can manage from here, Thomas. Get some rest – I’ve deprived you of enough of it as of late.” Jopson had protested mildly for a few moments, insisting on helping him move a final few pieces into place before they exited the cabin – Jopson to his berth, and Francis to the deck, meeting James as he emerged onto the deck. The man was clearly exhausted, having not been off his guard since the Carnivale began the night before. Francis greeted him by name, only to find James couldn’t look him in the eye. “Captain.” Came the stilted reply, his voice cracking with the effects of the charring and cold of the last 24 hours. Knowing that he likely wouldn’t get any more from him in sight of his crew, Francis gestured towards his cabin. “After you, James.”

The cabin was warm by now, and he saw a shiver wrack through James’ body as he stepped inside. Shutting the door behind them, he leaned on it for a moment, observing how small his partner had made himself with a pang of guilt. He crossed the floor, reaching out to ghost a hand over James’ shoulders, hoping he wouldn’t flinch away. As it was, he simply tensed under the touch. “Francis, I… I-” He broke off, shrinking further into himself when the right words wouldn’t come.  
“It’s alright, James,” Francis interrupted him, his second hand moving up to grip his other shoulder more firmly. “You needn’t say a thing yet. We’ll get you warmed through and feeling a bit more human, and then go from there, hm?” Slowly, those dark eyes drifted up to meet his own, more like two hollows in his face than anything else – the sheer joy that he’d found at Carnivale last night had been burnt out, leaving just a shell of the man in front of him. “Don’t – don’t be kind, Francis. I don’t deserve it.” He grated out, his whole face saturated in a wretched helplessness. Instinctively, Francis reached up, cupping his jaw and pressing their foreheads together, hoping to steady him even as he looked away. “Oh James, you’re freezing… Come on. Let me take care of you now. After the last few weeks, I owe you that much.” Hooking his thumbs under the familiar greatcoat, he slipped it from James’ shoulders, draping it over a chair. Soon, his scarf followed, along with his torn red sash – steadily, Francis was peeling back the layers until he could find his James underneath. James watched him intently, his eyes following every motion, but quickly realising that his arms were too heavy, too sluggish to help. “Francis…” he whispered again, reaching out as much as he could – and moments later, he was wrapped up close in his arms, tremors coursing through him as he was held close. “I’ve got you, James,” Francis murmured against him, “it’s alright, I’ve got you.” Gingerly, he guided him over to a chair, settling him there, before pouring a cup of tea, and folding it into his white fingers. “There now, James. Mr Bridgens leant me one of your jumpers, which is warming through on the stove, ready for us to tuck you into whenever you’re ready. We’ll set things right, James. We always do.”

Then they sat in silence, Francis leaning against the desk as he rubbed soothing circles into James' shoulder, the latter staring down into his tea, his mind a million miles away. It wasn't an unfamiliar arrangement for them by now - once Francis had become more coherent, James had started to pay quiet visits, initially under the guise of relieving his anxieties by keeping him informed; then to give Jopson a well-earned break; and before long, the need for excuses fell away altogether. They'd gone from stilted silences, compounded by the agony sound caused Francis, to quiet companionship. "You could tell us one of your stories, if you like. ‘s long you can tell it quietly, that is." He’d suggested one evening, when James' silent, sympathetic face got too much for him, and before long, he found himself smiling again, quietly yet ruthlessly teasing James as he rattled through his old favourites. The next evening, Francis had fallen asleep in the middle of a tall tale from the East, and in his hesitation as to whether he should leave, James had dropped off in the chair next to him. He’d woken with a start, only for Francis’ groggy voice to call out that it was cold outside. “’s not worth you dropping dead on the way back. Won’t you stay? We can make space, I’m sure.” They couldn’t quite pinpoint when all those slight touches had begun to linger; when their friendly conversation had taken on a deeper root; and, if he was honest, James still wondered if he’d dreamt their first kiss, when Francis’ nightmares had woken them both, only for James’ lips to brush against his forehead as he soothed him. They’d sworn they’d discuss it properly once Francis was back on his feet, only to talk it out later that night. But James had been busy planning the Carnivale, feeling guilty about running it behind Francis’ back – he’d barely seen him in that time, and Francis’ kindness about it all had only made him feel worse.

It was that same kindness that swamped him now – Francis taking the empty teacup from his hands, bringing a basin of warm water over to sponge away the lingering smell of the smoke. “Francis- Francis, you don’t have to. You’ve been ill, I can manage.” He protested weakly, his sooty fingers wrapping round his lover’s.  
“You took care of me when I was ill, James, despite your workload doubling. Let me do the same for you now that I’m back on my feet?” Francis had offered, before beginning to wash away the dark ash that had taken hold in the creases of James’ hands. Tenderly, he worked his way over his narrow fingers and down over his palms, before he moved to kneel up between James’ knees, so as to clean the dirt from his face. Neither of them mentioned the way the water momentarily swirled red as he worked over a certain spot, not wanting to address what it could mean. Not now. Francis worked gently across his skin, cupping his sharp jaw in one hand as he worked across the other cheek, the grime falling away mingled with the stress lining his face – replaced with a dejected tiredness as he leaned heavily against his captain.  
"There now," he said, breaking the silence as he patted his face dry, "there might just be a James under here after all!" He teased, a warm smile lighting his features, hoping to give some sort of comfort to his companion before continuing. "Now then, want me to give you some space, let you get out of those cold clothes in peace?"  
James' eyes shot up at that, his brow furrowing as he stared up into Francis' face. "No!" He exclaimed sharply, before looking mildly embarrassed at the desperation in his voice. "I mean, don't go? It's your cabin after all and I... Don't really want to be alone again."  
Gingerly, then, they got him changed, ashen robes falling to the floor, and being replaced with the more familiar layers that made up their unofficial Arctic uniform. Now, drowning in his stove-warmed jumper, James reached up instinctively to calm the static of his hair as it fluffed up around him, desperately trying to get it back under control.

“So,” He began, conversationally, “you’re looking better than you’ve been in a while.” There was a note of caution to his voice, a tiny part of him still remembering the rage he’d seen in Francis while he’d been ill. Francis hummed in agreement, bustling round the cabin for a moment before taking the chair opposite James with a tired grunt. “Feeling the most like myself since I joined this whole expedition, if I’m honest. ‘s about time I stepped up to the mark again really – although after the brilliant job you’ve done, it’ll be a hard act to follow.” At that, Francis saw his partner’s face fall, the tiredness falling away into guilt. “It’s good of you to say, Francis, it really is… But we both know it’s just not true. There’s no question that you were made to lead men in this kind of situation – I could appeal to their inner child for a brief moment, yes – but what’ve we got to show for it? Nothing more than waste.”  
“Oh come now James – this wasn’t your fault and you know it. You could never have known something like this would happen!” Francis interjected, his face creasing with concern. “If a man’s of that mindset, he’ll go to great lengths to see it through. Just imagine if the doctor hadn’t had that outlet – for all we know, he could have been planning to do the same to _Erebus_ , perhaps to both ships – we’d have had no shelter, no supplies, and so, so many more dead on our hands.” He shifted in his seat, watching James’ face as he tried to make eye contact with him, watching the way his stare bored holes into the deck.  
“I doubt he thought like that, Francis – I gave him the opportunity, and he took it. He was one of my men, my responsibility. Without him here to shoulder it, the blame now falls to me by default – now we’ve one doctor for dozens of men – and even then, he’s an anatomist first and foremost. One doctor, far fewer packing materials, some of our strongest men – not to mention what I’ve done to their morale. I’ve crippled us, Francis.” He said, voice beginning to break as he continued, softly. “Before we’ve even set out, I’ve crippled us.”

At that, Francis took a deep breath, before reaching to cover James’ hand with his own calloused one, the sudden warmth startling him for long enough that he could catch his gaze. “James… James I want you to listen to me carefully, alright? I won’t lie to you and tell you that this has changed nothing. You know as well as I do that this march now is a long shot from what either of us had planned it to be. But they were only plans, James – they were made to be changed, adapted to our needs as we go. Nothing’s set in stone, not here. We can find a way, James,” he said, a sense of urgency beginning to creep into his voice. “It might not be clear immediately, but we’ll find an answer for our situation, for the expedition and crew we have now, and not for what we were when we left England.” James shifted uncomfortably, struggling to meet his earnest gaze to the point that Francis thought he might pull away. Instead he cleared his throat, his jaw clenching briefly before he spoke.  
“I can’t help but think that we could’ve avoided all this if I’d listened to you before now… I had Sir John’s ear, I could’ve tried to persuade him- “  
“James, you’re blaming yourself for the actions of others far more than you ought… Just like Dr Stanley made his choice, Sir John had made his. You know how it is, we’ve all been raised following orders, and it’s hardly set you wrong on expeditions before now has it, hm? You did what any man of your background would have done, and I did the same as for mine. And whilst I struggle to forgive him, a man who ought to have known better – who had seen the Arctic at its very worst and knew all too well what we could face here-,” he paused, letting the anger diffuse in him a little, sped on by the look on James’ face, “while I may struggle to forgive him, I understand why you did what you did, and I can’t resent you for that, James. Not now.” Reaching forward, he ran his hand over his companion’s forearm, ghosting up to squeeze at his shoulder and feeling the built-up tension there.  
“Francis… I-” The words were sticking in James’ throat, choking on the guilt that Francis was trying so desperately to melt away. He made the mistake of looking up into that kind face, and felt his own crumble. “What have I done?” he whispered, even as those strong arms gathered him up, pulling him into Francis’ chest as he began to cry bitterly. After nights of doing the same for him, James was held securely, his shaking shoulders soothed by Francis’ big hands sweeping across his back. “It’s alright, James,” came that rich, Irish brogue. “Things will come right in the end.”  
They had no idea of how long they stayed there, waiting for James’ breathing to steady and his tears to cease. The tableau was only broken when a tearstained James glanced up at Francis, who began to swipe away his tears with gentle fingers almost on instinct. “I don’t suppose you’ve a spare handkerchief?” He asked, his voice still thick from crying. “Only ‘Britannia’ had no pockets for one, and I’d clear forgotten to fetch one…”

His voice cut out as Francis pulled one from his pocket and pressed it into his hands. “Here, now. I always keep one spare, just in case… I’m sure Jopson thinks me quite mad with that kind of habit, but I fear it’s the least of my faults by now.” Turning to give James time to blow his nose and wipe his face, Francis pulled his chair up closer, so that when he sat, he could take both of James’ hands in his. “Is that feeling better? Now that you’ve got it out of your system?” He asked, as James scrubbed at his face with his hands, his hair falling back into his eyes as he did so. The gaze that replied was still vaguely watery, but recognisably James now. “God, I’m sorry you’ve had to see me in quite such a mess this evening.” he replied automatically, before laughing hoarsely when Francis raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Really? After the way you’ve seen me through the last few weeks, you’re the one apologising?!” He asked teasingly, before squeezing his hands warmly. His eyes flickered up, lingering once again on that raw patch at James’ hairline. Francis recognised it all too well – having seen it before, he hated to remember what those symptoms could lead to. Sobering up, he cleared his throat, looking for a route into the conversation neither of them wanted to have. “Did you hear that your Mr Bridgens is to be helping Dr Goodsir with the medical side of things? Once we set out, that is?” He asked conversationally, watching his face intensely.  
“I did,” James replied easily, “He came to ask my permission once – once I was done with the count.” The word was loaded, and a sense of loss flickered back across his features. “He’ll be good at it. They’re both good men. Good and kind and caring.”  
“The kind we’ll need once we set out,” Francis added. “Kindness is quite the commodity out on the ice.”  
“Well, he’s got plenty spare… It’s about time I stopped hogging it to myself.” James’ voice had taken on a wistful tone, and Francis knew that if he didn’t say something now, he’d not gather the strength to do so again until things were much worse.  
“Look, I know you don’t want to think about it – no one ever does. But once he’s got to grips with things, it would be worthwhile to ask him about that,” Francis said, gesturing to his own hairline by way of explanation. “Just in case it should worsen, hm? For all our sakes, as well as your own.”  
James was knocked silent for a moment – he’d hoped that, despite everything, Francis wouldn’t have noticed, but here they were… “Alright,” he replied, gruffly. “We’ll get it sorted. I’ll be fine.” Instinctively, Francis thanked him, knowing personally now how hard it could be to admit any kind of weakness when you were at the top of the chain of command. 

Quietly, then, they sketched a brief idea of the next 24 hours needed to include – command meetings, the packing of the basic, bulky supplies, inspections with of what they had remaining to add detail to their planning. James had wanted to keep going, to get everything in place – but he wasn’t too upset when Francis stopped him. “That, and the rest of the list can wait until the morning,” he’d said, “once you look less dead on your feet.” James nodded in response, and they lapsed into a pregnant silence. Eventually his tired, cracked voice broke it with the question they’d both shied away from, afraid of shattering the comfortable air between them. “Francis I- before we set out, I have to ask… what am I to you now?” It wasn’t as elegant as he’d have hoped – in hiding his desperation, his burning need to know, he’d been blunt instead.

Francis sighed – he’d known the question was coming, but it hadn’t prepared him for how he could answer it. “Well…” he began, thumb brushing awkwardly over James’ knee as he began to fidget. “At the very least, I think we can call you my equal at this point – second only in title.” He heard James gasp quietly but didn’t let himself stop. Not now. “But I also hope I can call you my friend, at least. A brother in all this…” he gestured to the air, grasping for the right word. “…this chaos. But somehow – somehow I don’t think that’s quite what you’re asking me.” James held his breath, waiting in a private agony for what would follow. They were both staring at their hands now – where they’d been linked in comfort before, and since disrupted by work, they now lay on the lap of their respective owners, their fingertips brushing ever so slightly in the half light. Gingerly, Francis took one of James’ pale hands in both of his, admiring the way the light played over his tendons. “God, it’s a risk, and I think we both know it… Are you sure it’s one you’re willing to take? That I’ve not… somehow dragged you into this?” “I could ask you the same thing,” James interrupted, focusing on the contrast between their hands as he struggled to look into that kind face. “I didn’t… didn’t guilt you into it while you were unwell, did I? You don’t owe me anything for that, not in the slightest…”

Francis scoffed gently in reply, before taking a firmer grip on his hand. “God, no James… Not in the slightest.” Bringing his hand up to his lips, he finally looked into James’ face, his own open and earnest. “Is this what you want, James?” He asked, finally pressing his lips to his knuckles, his eyebrows furrowing tenderly as he did. James’ gasp was the only sound in the great cabin then, and as those lips broke away, he tilted his hand, cupping Francis’ jaw softly. “Yes. If you’ll have me, then yes. Call it what you like – your companion, lover, _partner_ , I don’t mind. As long as I can be there for you, be with you, I’m happy, Francis.” For a moment, they could only stare at each other – then a broad grin broke out across Francis’ face as he turned it into James’ palm, pressing a kiss there and eliciting a similar beaming smile from him. “God, yes James. I’ll be yours, if you’ll be mine?” Their vulnerability gave way to joy then – a warmth they’d not known properly for months, wrapping itself around them as they migrated towards each other, a myriad of soft voices, warm touches, gentle lips – all so chaste by some standards, yet each was loaded with a promise of things to come.

As the late night bells rang out into the muffled darkness, Francis looked into James’ eyes once again, a fond smile on his face. “Stay here tonight? You’ll need your strength for the morning, and the cold will only sap it.” James glanced to the bunk; to the blanket heating on the stove nearby; and then back to his partner, softened somehow by the warmth and comfort of loving company. “Of course, darling,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against Francis’ gently. “You make me stronger, make me feel safer – there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”


End file.
